


Cliches of the World

by mickeym



Category: Popslash
Genre: Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-23
Updated: 2006-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:52:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/mickeym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes romance is cliched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cliches of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [DWNOGA 2006](http://www.juppy.org/santa/).

Coffee smells filter outside of Starbucks and Chris stops to take a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of fresh-brewed goodness. Starbucks, he believes, is a gift from God. He steps forward, intent on getting inside _right now_, to get some of that coffee goodness, and feels a sudden pinch-and-sting.

The last thing he's aware of before the world goes dark is, _shit, now I'm not gonna get my coffee._

~~~~~

Everything's still fuzzy and out-of-focus, and when he swallows Chris tastes something bitter and faintly metallic at the back of his throat. Kind of like his tongue is painted with some kind of medicine. He shifts, not sure if he's sitting up or lying down, and groans when his stomach lurches.

"Don't move too fast or you'll puke."

The voice, hoarse and rough, still sounds familiar. Chris opens his eyes and squints against the roll of colors before closing them again. "Can't really move at all," he manages, swallowing fast to keep his stomach in place. Talking isn't supposed to count as moving, dammit.

"You will, when the drug wears off." There's a quiet rustling from somewhere beside him, and Chris flinches -- though he'll deny it with his dying breath -- when a hand touches his face. "Chris?"

"Last time I checked." He squinches his eyes open a little bit. "JC? Is that you? What the hell is going on? Where are we?"

"Yeah, it's me, I don't know and I don't know." Abruptly it _sounds_ like JC, the distortion gone from his voice. Chris moves his arms slowly until he can push himself into a sort of upright position. His stomach twists unhappily, and JC makes a quiet noise that Chris just knows is annoyance. "I told you, if you move you'll puke."

"You said if I move too fast." _I will not throw up I will not throw up I will not throw up._ After a minute, Chris even starts to believe it.

"Too fast, at all, whatever." JC waves a hand. "Movement, okay?" He frowns. "It'll pass, just--speaking from experience here, give it a little time."

It occurs to Chris then that there's no one else around. Just him and JC, and this--whatever it is. "Are we in a...a...is this a _cabin_?" He looks around, trying to figure it all out and hopes he didn't just sound as incredulous as he thinks he did. It sort of looks like a small, rustic cabin might, if by rustic he means four walls and a roof. Oh, and a fireplace, which hopefully works because Jesus _Christ_, it's chilly in here.

"I think so. I'm not--I don't know for sure. Last thing I remember was opening my door to get the paper, and then I woke up here. Um. There's some stuff--" JC waves his hand vaguely toward one corner of the cabin. "Over there. A couple canteens, another couple gallons of water, some blankets, some other stuff. Not much of anything, though. What about you?"

Chris frowns. "What about me what? And weren't you out in LA?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I dunno. Just trying to figure this shit out." It would be nice if his head stopped hurting. Might make that whole thinking thing all around easier. "God, this feels like a bitch of a hangover, except without the fun part that comes before." He raises one arm cautiously, and when his stomach doesn't roil, Chris goes on to push his hair out of his eyes, wondering where his bandanna went to.

"Yeah, I guess that's something you're pretty familiar with, isn't it?" It's always amazed Chris how JC can sound so bitchy and so bland all at the same time. Like now.

"Not like you've never been hung over, C." His mouth tastes like ass, and it seems like the bitter, medicinal taste is spreading across his tongue as his brain un-fogs.

"At least there aren't pictures of me groping some skank scattered across the 'net."

Chris raises an eyebrow, and hell, even that hurts. "Yeah? Then what about Tara? Eva? Hell, how 'bout Bobbee?"

Even in the dim light it's easy to see JC flush and Chris laughs, though he doesn't feel too amused. Score! Nothing's as much fun as poking at the ex's sore spots. Right? Right.

"Look," JC begins after a long, awkward silence. "We need to figure out what's going on. Why we're here. What do you remember? What were you doing, before you were here?"

Chris grimaces and tries to remember. "Um. Coffee. I was gonna--oh!" He bolts upright, thinking of the sting, and too late remembers JC's warning about moving fast, or at all. The sudden shock of sitting fully upright makes his stomach rebel violently and twisting so he doesn't puke on himself doesn't help.

When Chris is done throwing up, JC helps him sit up, then hands him a canteen. "Here. It's just water; I already checked."

"Uh-huh." Like JC would know if was laced with anything. Chris gives a mental shrug and takes a small drink. If whoever drugged him earlier wanted him dead, he'd probably already be dead.

JC stands up and scrounges around in a corner of the cabin, reappearing with what looks like a handful of rags. He offers one to Chris, then drops the rest over the mess Chris just made, wiping it up with calm efficiency. It makes Chris think of all the times they've all cleaned up after each other, after a night of too much drinking. They're old pros at this.

Rags tossed in the fireplace -- which really needs a fire, because it's really getting chilly in here -- JC starts pacing while Chris leans against the wall and tries to get his brain back online. He was getting coffee. JC went out to get his newspaper. Now they're both here -- wherever 'here' is -- but they're not tied up or hurt in any way (unless you count headaches and upset stomachs, which Chris is totally going to count). So what does their kidnapper want from them? Why them? Why here? JC's movement catches Chris's eye and he glances up; watches JC long enough that he starts to feel dizzy after a minute.

"Would you fucking just sit _still_ already? God."

JC sighs and shakes his head, but sits down anyway. Chris studies him, noting the bare feet and ratty sweats and t-shirt. Even dressed like that, with his hair tousled and sticking out oddly, JC looks good. And kinda like he just rolled out of bed. An image of JC, sleepy and warm and curled into him surges through his head, and Chris looks away, wishing JC didn't still have that power over him.

"If we gotta walk anywhere, you're screwed, C." He nods toward JC's bare feet.

"I thought so, too. But there's a pair of shoes with the water and stuff. My size, even," he adds, voice tight. "Someone planned this out."

Chris shakes his head. "Yeah, but who? And why?"

"Well, who've you pissed off lately?"

"Me?" Chris stares, wondering if that's JC's version of a joke. "Man, all I been doing is some partying and hanging loose. What about you? All the bad blood shit with you and Jive, and promoting your album--hell, for all I know, this is some cracked-out, elaborate promotional thing you cooked up."

JC widens his eyes then starts laughing, the kind of half giggle, half belly-laugh he used to do a lot but gradually stopped doing, especially when things between them went sour. "Yeah, because that's exactly the sort of thing I'd want, Chris. Have _you_ kidnapped with me, then have us dumped off in the middle of god-knows-where in a shack that wouldn't even make it as an extra in _Deliverance_. If I was gonna do that sort of thing, I think I'd pick someone I could actually talk to, don't you?"

Ouch, that hurts. Chris scowls. "Maybe if you tried talking less and doing more, you wouldn't fuck up every relationship you've ever had."

"Okay, you know what? I don't need to hear this. I don't want to hear this. I had enough of this crap when we were--" JC breaks off, mouth twisting into a tight, thin line, and then he's up like a shot, disappearing into the dim gloom of the cabin. Chris listens to him rustle around, and when he reappears he has shoes on, a canteen slung over his shoulder, and a blanket in his arms. "I'm outta here. I don't care how or why we're here, but I'm not sticking around to take shit from you."

He's gone before Chris can even open his mouth to say anything.

~~~~~

"This is such a stupid, fucked-up cliché�," Chris mutters, tramping through the forest. Woodlands. Wherever the hell he is. There's fresh snow on the ground, with the promise of more looming over him in the form of a winter storm. The sky is the color of lead, and it seems colder than even just a little while ago.

At least with the snow, Chris can follow JC's footprints. At least there are footprints _to_ follow. He eyes the sky again, wondering how far north they are, and how much more snow is likely to fall. And why the hell couldn't he get drugged and kidnapped on a day he was dressed for a late-season Steelers' game in Pittsburgh, rather than on a day he was dressed for a mild, balmy winter day in Orlando?

He finds JC huddled against a tree, blanket pulled up and around him as much as possible, looking cold and miserable.

"You're an idiot," Chris tells him, though not unkindly. "Did it occur to you that we're probably in the middle of British-fucking-Columbia, or Alaska, or Antarctica or something?" He whaps JC lightly against the forehead, then pretends he doesn't linger, fingers pressed against JC's cold face, for just a minute.

"I th-think it's a safe bet it's not Antarctica," JC says, leaning into Chris. He's shivering, but so is Chris.

"How would you know? I don't see a sign anywhere." It's awkward, with the blankets, but Chris gets one arm around JC's waist and pulls JC's over his shoulder.

"No t-t-trees in An-antarctica." The words stutter out, and Chris shoots JC a concerned look.

"Dude, I so do not want to have to be the one to call Karen and Roy when we get back to tell them you _died of hypothermia_ because your brain went on vacation and took your body along with it."

JC blinks slowly at him. "What?"

"Never mind." Chris sighs and scowls at the tiny, fine snowflakes beginning to spiral down around them. "C'mon, let's go before the snow buries our footprints and we both freeze to death and die out here."

~~~~~

"That was really stupid," Chris says again, piling more branches onto the fire he finally got going. Thank god he still had Del's lighter in his pocket. He finds himself wishing he had some tomato soup in there, too. Or that JC was hiding a bowl of chili somewhere in his sweatpants.

No such luck, though maybe there's something in the pack in the corner that he can heat up. Hopefully.

"Did I mention that wasn't the brightest idea you've ever had, genius?" There are two sleeping bags and four blankets -- two for each of them -- and Chris takes one of his and lays it over JC's lap. He already has JC sitting on one of the sleeping bags. Maybe JC should get inside the sleeping bag? Cub Scouts was a long time ago, and Chris is pretty sure stuff like this wasn't covered, in any case.

"Yeah, I g-got that the f-f-first zillion times, thanks." JC's color is better than it was a little while ago--his lips don't look quite as bluish as they did when they arrived back here, and Chris is torn now between grateful JC isn't likely to die from freezing, and wanting to throttle him.

"Just making sure. Here, have another drink of water." The canteen JC took with him is still half full, and there's another one left plus the gallon jugs, so Chris is trying to push some fluids into JC. He wishes again for something warm. "Do we have anything to eat? We got water, blankets, _shoes..._so there should be some food too, right?"

"I didn't look through the whole pack. There's some s-stuff in a bag, over there." JC tips his head toward the back of the cave. "Like granola bars, or something." His hands still shake a little when he reaches for the canteen, but hell, Chris is shivery and shaky too.

"Healthy stuff?" Chris can't quite keep the horror out of his voice, and frowns at JC's smile. "Dude, granola bars are practically green veggies."

"Oh, they are not." JC pulls the blanket around his shoulders closer. "The way they make 'em now, they're more like candy bars. Besides, if it was a choice between broccoli and starving, which would you take?"

Chris snorts. "I've been thinking of trying for that more slender look, lately."

"Is everything just one big joke to you? No, wait, I already know the answer to that."

"You think you do," Chris says, rummaging around in the bag that was sitting beside the backpack. He pulls a couple granola bars out and sets them aside, then opens the pack. Best to know now if there's anything like real food here.

There's two sets of what looks like the camping gear he had in Cub Scouts, a thing that doubles as a pot and bowl with a cup and silverware inside it. A lot of packages of powdered soup mix, some hot chocolate mix, a couple cans of beans and hotdogs, a couple cans of Dinty Moore stew. Not one single steak anywhere. And no coffee.

"Chris." JC heaves a sigh and Chris looks over at him. "You never take anything seriously--or you make such a joke out of things up to the point where you do, no one can tell the difference, when you are actually being serious." He glances up at Chris, his eyes dark, unreadable. "You don't have to shield all of yourself, all the time, from everyone."

"I don't." Chris tosses a granola bar thing to JC, then sits down beside him. "I didn't. From you."

"Yeah, you did. Maybe you didn't think so, but. You did." JC shrugs. "You always do."

Chris wants to ask JC where he gets off saying Chris hides things when he knows JC has a couple good-sized skeletons in his own closet. Instead he mutters, "It's what I do. Who I am."

JC gets quiet after that; he's apparently unwilling to continue the conversation -- though after he's done with his snack he snuggles up against Chris -- and Chris is definitely unwilling, himself. The fire is warm and the heat is soothing. The branches snap and pop and crackle as pine resin heats and water evaporates, and if Chris closes his eyes he can almost imagine he's at home, fire going in the fireplace, friends hanging around to party.

Or maybe, even better, he's at a ski lodge somewhere. He's already in the cabin with the snow falling outside, so he doesn't even have to work too hard to imagine that. In his fantasy he has no intention of skiing; instead he's stretched out on a comfy quilt in front of a roaring fire, butt naked with someone else equally naked, ready to get frisky. Yeah, that sounds good.

JC's a warm, heavy weight against him and Chris falls asleep listening to JC's soft snores, thinking about naked and frisky, and JC naked and frisky.

~~~~~

There's warm skin beneath his fingertips. Warm, smooth, little striations and bumps here and there and Chris traces it like a map, feeling the heat just beneath the surface. He hears a sigh, a low, throaty moan, and turns his fingers so the edges of his nails drag over the skin. Beneath his fingers goose bumps break out and without opening his eyes Chris knows if he stroked a little lower he'd find hard, tight nipples, drawn up not from cold but from excitement.

"Chris--" JC's voice. JC's voice rough with want. Chris hums softly and leans into the warmth snuggled up against him. "Chris, dude."

"Shh," he says, still not opening his eyes. If he opens them, then this will all disappear. Or be a bad dream. Chris prefers good dreams; especially ones like this. He pulls at JC, tugs until JC sprawls under him, warm and loose-limbed with sleep. "Later," Chris mutters quietly, closing the distance between them.

"Later," JC says, the word a puff of air against Chris's mouth.

It's been months since they kissed; even when they were still fucking -- in between fighting, and just before they broke up -- they didn't kiss. It was too hard to open himself up to that kind of intimacy. Which is really fucking stupid, when Chris thinks about it, because hello, _fucking_. If that's not intimate he doesn't know what is.

But it's a different sort of intimacy, and one Chris misses. He hears himself growl when JC bites at his lips, tongue slicking over the tiny stings, easing them. He holds JC's head, fingers threaded into too-short hair, wishing for the long mane JC wore during the first year or so of the hiatus-turned-into-the-end. JC's fingers are buried in Chris's hair and they're clinging to each other like they'll float apart if they let go.

"Just--don't stop," JC gasps when Chris draws back to take a breath.

"Not stopping," he says, pulling JC close again. The air is filled with wet, soft sounds and JC's hot against him, body tight with tension, with hunger that echoes in Chris's body. Chris nips, then bites, and JC snarls, fingers digging into Chris's scalp just before he rolls them, pinning Chris beneath him.

Chris's chest is tight, aching from trying to catch a breath, but he can't pull away from JC's mouth. Wants to taste it, dive in and never come up. There's a faint sour taste he chases with his tongue; it matches the taste in his mouth, medicine-bitter, beneath the taste that's just _JC_.

A loud pop startles them, shocks Chris into opening his eyes. He stares up, sees JC's pupils blown, only a thin ring of blue-gray to give them any color. There are two spots of color high on JC's cheekbones; they match the way Chris feels inside and out.

"This is such a bad idea," JC mumbles after a long minute of just staring.

Chris feels JC's erection pressed against his thigh; his own throbs between his legs, hard and ready. Staring at JC's swollen, red mouth isn't helping; when JC licks his lips Chris mimics him before pulling at JC's head, tugging him down for more kisses.

"It really is," Chris agrees, licking into JC's mouth. Bad idea, sure, but neither of them says stop, either.

Chris isn't sure he _can_ stop.

When JC grinds his dick down against Chris, he knows he can't . Won't. Instead, he presses back, pushes up against JC until they're rocking hard and fast against each other, kisses nothing more than gasps against the other's mouth.

JC comes first, shuddering against Chris, pulling hard on his hair. It makes Chris groan, the pleasure skirting just this side of pain, spilling over then receding until all Chris feels is the bright, hot spike of orgasm spreading in warm waves all through him. JC nuzzles at Chris's throat while he pants and jerks, then kisses Chris again, soft and slow, easing him back down.

"Damn," is all Chris can think to say, and it comes out in a ragged whisper.

JC nods, rolling off and away before standing up, making a face down at his stained sweats. "God, it's like being sixteen again."

Chris pushes himself up, wincing when his joints crack and pop. Getting old sucks. Getting old and acting like a kid is just plain stupid. There's a lot he'd like to say right now, but most of it would be even more stupid than what they just did. He settles for saying, "Think it's still snowing out there?"

"One way to find out." JC doesn't seem any more eager than Chris to jump into how stupid they just were, and heads for the door to peer out. He sighs heavily and stands aside so Chris can look out, too.

It's pure white out there. Snow falling, snow covering everything, wind blowing the snow sideways and all around.

"Fuck, we're never gonna get out of here," Chris mutters, turning to eyeball the pile of wood and branches he dragged in earlier. "We're gonna need more wood, too. I really don't wanna freeze to death up here in the great white wherever."

"I'd really like to know who's responsible for this. And why. I mean, I guess I kinda get the whole kidnapping us thing, but--"

"But you'd think there'd be someone holding a gun over our heads. Or we'd be tied up, or something."

JC snorts. "Bondage fantasies? I don't think this is the right time, cat."

"Oh, bite me, Chasez. You know what I mean." Chris eyes the snow again and decides it's better to go get some more wood now, while he can still see trees. "I'm gonna go get some more branches and shit. Think you could handle heating up something for us to eat?"

"One time, Chris. It was _one_ time I set the smoke alarm off." JC folds his arms across his chest. Chris pretends he's not looking at the way that emphasizes his biceps and forearms. Geez, he turned into a twelve year old girl when he wasn't looking. JC catches him looking and frowns. "What?"

"Nothing. And it was twice. The bus totally counts."

"If it does, then you've got twice the number of smoke alarms I've got." JC shuts the door and leans back against it. "When was the last time we had a conversation that didn't end in us fighting, or not speaking for weeks?"

Chris considers the question, then smirks. "Um. 1997, maybe '98?"

JC closes his eyes and the way his lips move makes Chris wonder if he's counting to ten. Or maybe a hundred.

"Okay, more like--I don't know. Seriously." He doesn't, either. It's been a while, but that was always half the fun of being with JC--he gave as good as he got. Chris knows that JC comes off sometimes as a flake who can't string three words together, but beneath that is a layer of smart, sharp and sassy. With a pinch of pissy bitch thrown in for good measure. "I like the--that," he says quietly, heading toward the pile of blankets JC's abandoned. Not quite the same as a coat, but any port in a storm or however that saying goes.

"Yeah, well, it seemed like you liked getting electric shocks, too, if what I heard's true." JC ducks the shoe Chris sends flying his way and laughs. "You were on live radio, asshole. You think I wasn't going to hear it?"

"Do I look like I care?" Too bad he can't make a poncho-type thing out of the blanket. It would make the whole wood-gathering thing a lot easier. A horrible bit of curiosity makes Chris ask, "Did you hear the show, or just hear _about_ it?"

JC looks awfully damn smug when he says, "Careful, or I might start thinking you care what I think."

Did he just think he likes sassy? Or pissy bitchiness? Chris scowls and stamps toward the door. "Hell will freeze over first, dickhead."

"You call me the sweetest things," JC calls, just before Chris slams the door shut behind him.

Once he's safely outside and away from the cabin, he feels a grin spread across his face. It stays there the whole time he walks around, freezing his ass off, looking for wood.

~~~~~

"Wow. Canned stew and hot chocolate. You're gonna spoil me, C."

JC snorts. "Eat all your dinner and you can even have dessert."

It's on the tip of Chris's tongue to ask if JC's planning to offer himself as dessert, but for once it seems safer not to just blurt out what's right there. Instead he raises an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"You didn't forget about the granola bars, did you?"

"Was kinda trying to, yeah. It still kinda looks healthy, on the package."

"You're a freak, man." JC tips his head back to get the last bit of hot chocolate and Chris wonders what JC would do if he were to lean over and lick that long slope of neck. Maybe bite down on the long muscle on the side.

"Tell me something I don't know," is what Chris ends up saying, looking away from JC and into the fire. At least that'll only burn his retinas out.

It's quiet for a minute except for the crackle of the flames, and then JC says very quietly, "I didn't want to be over. Us. You and me, I mean."

Chris looks up sharply. "Yeah? You had a funny way of showing it, then."

"Look, I didn't say I did things the right way. Or any way that made sense. Just--y'know. I think we were good together."

"We--were. For a while, yeah." They really were. Kids when they started fucking around, just to relieve stress, and Chris remembers vividly the first time it was more than just fucking around. When it felt like something _real_. Something that would last. It seems like forever ago, but it also seems like it just happened yesterday. He clears his throat. "So, um."

"Yeah." JC isn't any better at this talking shit than Chris is; if anything, he's worse, because when he runs out of words he starts making wild gestures with his hands that can mean anything from "yes" to "elephants are stampeding". Chris used to speak fluent JC-ese, but somewhere along the way to losing JC, he lost that, too. "When was the last time we, um. That we talked? Hung out?"

Chris frowns, trying to remember. "Huh. Thanksgiving last year? Or was it Christmas?"

They'd had Thanksgiving together, both their families, two years ago. Things took a wild downhill swing not long after that. It hurts to think about it, even now.

JC's nodding. "Something like that, yeah." He kicks at Chris's foot. "I've missed it. You. Hanging with you."

"You missed the best lay of your life," Chris says, looking up to see JC roll his eyes.

"It's good you're working on overcoming that modesty issue you have." JC kicks him again. "Be serious, just a little, just for right now, okay?"

Chris nods, then says, "I'll try. No promises."

"You're right, though." JC's grinning, the one that makes his eyes crinkle up; the one Chris can't resist grinning back at.

"I'm right? About--?"

"Best lay of my life." The grin becomes a smirk which Chris returns. "Course I thought that back when I mostly just had my hand for comparison--"

It takes a second for the words to actually register, then Chris straightens indignantly. "Hey!" Chris kicks at JC's ankle. "No dissing the technique, dude."

JC's laughing so hard he's doubled over. "Man, you sh-shoulda seen your face."

"Better be quiet before I shut you up," Chris growls, but it lacks any real menace and JC just keeps on laughing. Chris decides to check on the storm while he waits for JC to run out of air, or for the batteries to wind down, whichever.

It's still snowing. Heavily. Proof, as far as Chris is concerned, that they're up in Antarctica. Or is that down in Antarctica? He's never really been sure.

"We are never getting out of here," he says morosely, pushing the door shut again. "Spring thaw will come an' it'll still be snowing."

"You're maybe over-exaggerating just a little bit," JC says from right behind him. "If it's warm enough for stuff to thaw, it's too warm for snow."

"It's been a long time since you lived anywhere it snowed, hasn't it?" If he leans back just a few inches, Chris can lean against JC. He holds onto that urge, not sure where they stand in terms of, well, everything. Casual touches are good, but anything else, and Chris feels the solid ground beneath him turn into a slippery slope.

"Not like you've been living up where you gotta wear snow boots and a parka," JC counters. He must take another step or two forward because Chris can feel his body heat. Right there, right behind him. He sways a little, shivering when JC presses against him, hands skimming down Chris's body, coming to rest on either side of his waist. "If we had boots and coats, we could go outside and play in it. Make snowmen."

"Make a snow fort. With ammo." Chris thinks of all the winters he spent playing with neighborhood kids, flinging snowballs back and forth. "Or we could write our names in the snow."

JC chuffs out a soft laugh, leaning in closely enough that his breath is warm and moist against Chris's neck. "If you mean the way I think you mean, forget it, cat. I like my dick right where it's at, not frozen like a Popsicle."

"I could warm it up for you afterward, 'cos I like it where it's at, too," Chris says, before his brain can intervene. Somewhere out in the world is someone who never actually says much at all because he or she got a double dose of think-before-you-speak. In other words, got Chris's portion as well.

JC squeezes Chris, a cross between a hug and a caress. "I'm planning on it. In fact, I was kinda hoping you'd do that, even if we don't go out and get cold first."

That sounds like an invitation if he ever heard one, so Chris turns in JC's arms.

This time the kisses taste like chocolate, sweet and rich, melting him inside.

~~~~~

There's no way to tell exactly how much snow is out there, but when the wind finally stops howling and they can see the sun again, it's midway up the door of the cabin.

"We're never getting out of here," Chris says, over and over again. Often enough, in fact, that JC threatens to gag him if he doesn't shut the fuck up right _now_.

They're both sick of canned stew and dried, packaged soup, and the granola-candy-bar things are gone. So's most of their water; Chris has started melting snow in their little cook pots so they don't get dehydrated.

"How long do you think we've been up here?" Chris asks, again. It bugs him that he didn't have his watch on when he was grabbed, and they didn't see the sun for long enough because of the storm that he's unable to figure out what day it is.

"Too long," is JC's short answer, and Chris makes a mental note never to be kidnapped with JC again, unless there's coffee and hot and cold running water and a real bed. He paces the length of the cabin and back, swerving around JC when he makes a grab for Chris's legs. "You're going to wear a path in the floor, cat."

"I gotta move. It's like I got shit crawling under my skin, all itchy and twitchy." Chris bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, then goes back to pacing, veering away from JC completely.

"You're gonna be crawling if you don't stop.it.right.now," JC says through gritted teeth. Chris thinks that's rich, coming from a guy who's counted the little packets of soup stuff over and over, even though it's not like the count changes that frequently. And he's not even going to think about JC's anal retentiveness over folding blankets and sleeping bags.

"Hey, this is like exercise. Y'know, if we were in the can, and only got an hour a week out in the yard--we gotta move and stuff, keep our muscles working."

"Yeah, because there's so much danger of them atrophying when we're doin' the horizontal tango six times a day." JC's really hot when he's all pissy. Chris blows him a kiss and grins.

"Now who's exaggerating? We haven't done it six times total since we been here. Your math sucks dick."

"Christopher. Alan. Kirkpatrick." JC's left eye is twitching, so Chris stops in his tracks. JC-baiting is a fun past-time, but there always comes a point when it's better to back down than keep going. Obviously they've reached that point in record time, this go around.

It's quiet in the cabin--too quiet. Chris has never wanted a GameCube or Nintendo or television so badly in his life as he's wanted over the last couple or ten days. Okay, not ten, but it's been several, anyway. Chris has just about decided to give the JC-baiting another try when he hears what sounds like "Hello" echoing around outside.

He and JC stare at each other for a minute, then run for the door. Chris makes it there first, since he's starting from a standing position, but it's damn close. If it weren't for the fact that Chris wants out of here really _really_ badly himself, he might be insulted. But nah, he wants out where he can have a shower and brush his teeth, have a coffee, and maybe a hamburger and fries, and then sleep in a real bed.

Preferably with JC.

"Hey! We're here!" JC's waving his arms, and Chris hollers again, "Hello! Up here!"

The absolute sweetest thing Chris has ever seen in his life is the three people coming toward them on skis, waving their arms and calling back to them.

"How'd you know to look for us?" Chris asks, once the rescue guys have handed over warm coats and socks and hats and shit. They're looking around with interest while Chris can't wait to get the hell out of this place. From the quick, jerky movements JC's making, he can't wait either.

"Huh? Oh--we got a phone call. Anonymous tip, to the ranger's station, said they thought someone was up here. It was pretty suspicious though, since they told us you'd need coats and stuff. Anyone who was hiking or camping should've had those."

Anonymous tip, huh? Chris looks over at JC and rolls his eyes. He has a feeling 'anonymous' is actually named Lance, Justin or Joey. Or maybe all three.

Whatever, he's going home. They're going home. Maybe they haven't fixed things between them -- really they haven't, because sleeping together and doing a little talking isn't the same as fixing -- but they've at least both admitted they want to fix things. Try again.

It's a good start, anyway.

~fin~


End file.
